What makes us human?

fiction

The train came and people rushed out in clusters. A teenage girl with large headphones and a handful of gadgets smacked me with her backpack. A man in his 30’s stumbled when a radiant woman sought his embrace. I wondered if she will do the same. Will she wear an expression of glee, resolution? Or unease – my insides iced at the thought. The conductor held a bent woman’s bag, escorting her to the exit. I stared at the dispersing crowd, waiting for the verdict to arrive with her face. The last groups walked, chatted and laughed. She wasn’t there.

Like this:

He steers away from heartbreak as if they have nothing to say to one another. Dozens of folders with snaps of his daily life depict his heart’s time-out: in them, he giggles, grooves, and exists.

In pursuit of positive thoughts and ceaseless triumphs, he proclaims his life a pain-free zone. As entire generations kneel before emotional buffers, most are oblivious to his cheerful numbness.

The planet journeys on, stumbling under the weight of selfies. Artificial intelligence is no longer a future away; each step of self-rejection brings him closer to his android possessions. Blinded by infinite filter options, he just keeps simpering…

It lingers for a while each time we meet, wrapping us both in coats of recognition. You may not know how tender your manner is, or may not wish to act upon it. Once we part those alternatives stare at me, teasing. Until I forget.

But everything stops, briefly, as we’re there without any favorable aims in sight, allowing us to return to where we left off.

Moments stolen from decay are infused with comradery and recognition. Like a phoenix, our momentum glides between reality and dreams, touching on peaks of being alive and affairs that don’t even exist.

Like this:

Just like existence itself, words and descriptions are elusive by nature. To be who we are and then let go, to float between immersing in it all and hiding from it all and back again, is an affair as real as it is invisible.

I saw it in a dark, dusty corner of a large hardware store filled with clutter and immediately was drawn into its world. This, for me, was common. Flower vases tell me stories that go far beyond their obvious purpose or the way they look. This one, in particular, was a factory produced squat wobbly shaped brown vase with abstract white drawings. But in spite of its commonness, my ears were in tune with the language it spoke.

I heard the story of a supporting actress, crucial to the plot yet always in someone’s shadow – a permanent bridesmaid to ever-changing brides, her appearance toned down even when glorious. As I listened to tales of loyalty and compassion, her tone rang of calmness. She knew she would once quietly fulfill her destiny nurturing others and witnessing many a spotlight.

Much about the character of reality escapes me. But carrying the bag in which she rested wrapped up in gravelly paper, I have never been more certain about being that vase myself.

Thoughts and words make up and split entire worlds; conversing happens through the meeting of a person’s language and perception. As we cut, tape and shape scattered episodes into oceans of stories, mere skill separates literature from everyday life.

And the existence of aliens, fairies, secret passages, hidden forces and parallel dimensions?